Our car died yesterday on a roundabout on the outskirts of Arles, as we returned from a day trip to the Med at Saintes Maries de la Mer. The sun is shining, it’s early evening, you enter a roundabout shifting down gears as you navigate the steady stream of traffic from beach goers and attendees at the festival in Arles, then as you accelerate gently towards your exit lane the car dies, you try to restart no go, you realise ‘Houston we have a problem, moving from residual momentum you see an exit off of the roundabout to a filling station, an unlikely god send. Compare and contrast to dying on a motorway travelling at 120 km/hr. As these things go we were not without good fortune. We sat in the car turning the key every minute or two. The battery was fine. The car did not start. A young man, black, French, helped us roll the car to the side. We sat some more periodically turning the key, it didn’t start. Two adults two dogs in France in a dead car on Easter Sunday, something of a pickle you might say. Things that occupy you in the moment. Ali had forgotten her phone. You don’t want your mobile to run out of juice so you switch off the WIFI service, you drop a pin on Google maps to be able to inform people where you are. I called my insurance in Ireland, my comprehensive coverage did not extend to Europe. I more or less knew that. They called me back with a number for roadside assistance. I called the number. No answer. It was Easter Sunday. We turned the engine over. No go. I sent a message to Anna giving our status. She was at a BBQ and in no position to help beyond moral support. Ali had pointed out that there was a hotel nearby, we could see the sign. We walked to the hotel. Two adults and two lurchers. I went in and said the classic words, ‘Notre voiture est tombeé en panne’, our car broke down. I asked if we could get a room for the night having dogs. She asked, as people often do here, and as the taxi driver was to ask shortly later, what breed it was, and then after checking with her boss, said no go, too big. I asked if she could help us find a mechanic. That sparked her into a productive line of thought. She said she knew a recovery vehicle dude who knew a taxi driver, and if we wanted she could contact him. Goes to show that those who live on the front lines of the service industry are familiar with these everyday catastrophes. A lean man of medium height, carrying an industrious air, dressed in black hard wearing trousers, the kind with a flamboyance of pockets, arrived at the hotel. We were sitting outside at a table. We both agreed he looked like our guy. He was.
He had me turn the starter a few times, unceremoniously, he told us that the engine was fucked, in French. He was using his mobile phone for translation. He spoke and it displayed the translation. Pretty Star Trekky when you think about it. He loaded our car onto his truck. The dogs were to stay in the car. He told Ali she could stay with the dogs if she liked. I asked if I could join them, no, I was to travel with him in the cab. It was a sight, my wife and our two lurchers in a car on a recovery vehicle trailer in France on Easter Sunday. We had emptied the car of our possessions, the realisation dripping steadily that this might be our last chance, that we might never see the car again. It’s a very abrupt way to end a relationship, and we have a relationship with our cars. The entrance to the yard was protected by a heavy steal gate. These yards, the kind belonging to operators such as vehicle recovery, are invariably located in anonymous industrial estates on the outskirts of towns and cities. They are secured with high walls and strong gates as if their proprietors know something about the wildness of urban life, its precariousness and potential for lawlessness, that we regular Joe Soaps don’t. I paid with my bank card, €245, a cost which was to followed later by €180 for a one hour taxi ride.
At the recovery yard I got instructions for next steps. I was to call the number listed on the paper receipt on Tuesday, not Monday as it was a holiday, and give instructions as to next steps. Did I want the car taken to a mechanic or to a wrecker’s yard? Meanwhile the taxi driver had arrived, with a gleaming car and gleaming skull shorn of hair, both looked the part. His seats were leather and he was concerned that the dogs would scratch them. He got a blanket from his boot and put it on the seat. Light was fading as we set off, Giuseppe on my lap, and Gertie on Ali’s. Our taxi driver was warm and chatty. He pointed out some local landmark from the car. I thought he said the ‘Alps’, an idea partially planted by online info I read beforehand of Alpine views available from the Camarque. When I asked how long it would take to drive there, practicing some French, he seemed confused, as if what a question, and on second go answered 10 minutes…clearly not the Alps then. He also told us about the Feria, the festival, and the running of the bulls. I asked him if he had done it, and yes, back when he was a young’un. Just your usual taxi chat.
After I had payed him by card – he had a Sumup device same as Ali has for her jewellery – he wished us ‘bon courage’. I guessed that was in reference to our vehicular misfortune. ‘Bon courage’ he repeated just before he and his black car slid off into the Provencal darkness. Time for an unwinding joint and bed.
Yesterday, Tuesday, I called the number on the recovery vehicle receipt. I shared my will that the vehicle be taken down to the wrecker’s yard, or whatever happens downstream. No point in having a broken down right-hand drive vehicle in left-hand drive Europe. My plan was to get rid of it in the next month or two anyhow. I asked if it would cost anything. He said he’d check. He called me back to confirm it would cost nothing and to ask for an email authorising the action with a copy of my passport. I suspect the process would be a slight bit more complicated with paperwork if it had been a French registered vehicle. Sometimes it’s good to be a foreigner.
What to do with our RHD Irish car had been a conundrum I was ruminating upon. It had bald tyres and warning lights, it was 15 years old, it would have cost a whack to ship it home in peak summer season for a sale. It is now gone from our lives.
I’ve been using a local for sale website, leboncoin, to look for camper vans. I changed my focus to cars. We need wheels pronto. You can’t take the dogs on the bus. One of the first vehicles that came up on my search of vehicles under €10k within 10km of the nearest sizeable town, Carpentras, was a Fiat Punta Evo in Pernes Les Fontaines, right where we are staying. We saw it yesterday evening and today decided on purchase for €4k. A 2010 model with 140km on the clock, we got it knocked down from €4200. Out with RHD in with LHD. Its owner is moving to Réunion island and needs a quick sale. She came over to show us the car with her boyfriend. I read a vehicle history report beforehand. The vehicle had had 3 accidents. The owner and her partner assured us that they were cosmetic. The cost of each of the repairs was over €1000, suggesting to my reckoning some serious work; however, on checking with Flaurent afterwards it appears to be easy to run up such a sized bill with a garage in France. I looked at prices for same models and vintage in Ireland and UK and could see that they were on average about 20% cheaper. We are getting it at a discount to the locally recommended price as she is in a hurry with the net result that the price is about the same as you’d pay in the UK or Ireland. We will see how it goes.
Prix du jour
Recovery vehicle in Arles on Easter Sunday €245
One hour taxi ride of approx 60km on Easter Sunday. €180